


Broke

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Addiction, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Debt, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Financial Issues, Gen, Guns, Heroin, Homelessness, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Hurt Anakin Skywalker, Interdimensional Travel, Loss, Money, More tags later, Needles, Reader-Insert, Smoking, Swearing, The Drug Trade, Time Travel, references to rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: You're a small-time drug dealer in a big city working for an asshole.Anakin is a delusional, heroin-addicted homeless man who can't see beyond his next hit, unless he's looking into the past.One day, you get sent to collect a rather sizeable debt he owes to your boss. You feel like a jerk about it because you helped him dig the hole he's fallen into by lending him too much junk in the first place; however, there's nothing you can do to help him at this point, so you press him for the money anyhow.He begs and pleads and tries to bargain with you, but you're having none of it. Frustrated, you root through his tent in search of valuables, only to find evidence that he might not be quite as deranged as you thought he was.What the fuck is a 'lightsaber', anyway?
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Reader, Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	Broke

_"Come on— don't make me do this today. He's only a kid, and anyway—"_

_"He's a kid who owes me, and he owes me a **a lot.** You're the one who spotted him all that extra shit to begin with, and you're the one who's going to go and get my cash back. Got it?"_

...

Sighing heavily, you made your way down the street. It was an awful street; filthy, and lined with trash, shopping carts, and tents of varying size and quality. You'd been sent here by your boss to retrieve some money he was owed, although you wished you hadn't been— the person from whom you were supposed to collect wasn't going to have what you were after, and you knew it. Unfortunately, though, you were obliged to try; if you didn't try, then it would be your ass on the line instead of his... and you weren't about to let that happen again.

"What colour was that sad little fucker's tent, anyway...?" you muttered to yourself, as you approached the general vicinity of where you'd last seem him. You remembered that he liked to tuck it as far away from everyone else's as he could, but that was about it. 

As you stood and scanned the area, you found to your simultaneous relief and dismay that it didn't actually matter what colour his tent was or where he'd set it up, because the 'sad little fucker', as you tended to call him, was already standing outside of it. He appeared to be pissing through a chain-link fence separating his sleeping space from a derelict old yard connected to a defunct warehouse. 

"Anakin!" you called, because using his name was the best way to get his attention. An imprecise 'hey' would only have drawn a crowd, and the last thing you wanted was to wake up everyone else in the encampment in the process of trying to collect a single debt. 

Spinning around to face you with a distinctly anxious suddenness (he didn't even give himself time to tuck his dick all the way back into his pants), he looked at you wide-eyed. "Fuck!" he said. "You scared the shit out of me! What the fuck are you doing here this early in the goddamn morning?"

You made a face as you watched him zip up his fly. "Jesus, Anakin, put your pecker away before you turn around to talk to me next time. I'm a fucking lady, you know."

He snorted at you before taking a little plastic bag full of other people's half-smoked cigarettes out of his pocket. You knew he'd picked them up from the ground outside the bars and clubs downtown, probably mostly last night. If he couldn't even afford a pack of cigarettes, how the hell was he supposed to pay you what he owed? He took out one of the longer ones, stuck it into his mouth as though someone else hadn't already drooled all over it, and lit it up before saying, "You're no fucking 'lady', and we both know it. Now what the fuck are you doing here? I have another week and a half before—"

"No you don't," you interrupted, stepping up to him with a shake of your head. Before he could do anything to stop you, you wrenched the nasty old butt out of his mouth, and threw it back to the ground where it belonged. You pulled out your own pack of smokes next, opened it, and held it out so he could take one. Begrudgingly, he did; once he'd lit it up, you went on, "The boss wants his money, and he wants it today. He sent me to scare it out of you, but I have a funny feeling you're broke. You broke, Anakin?"

"Fuckin' right I'm broke," he told you, as you looked him up and down. 

His appearance was exactly as fucking pathetic as it had been the last time you'd seen him— he was skinny and strung-out, his honey-coloured hair was a filthy nest of tangles, and his deep-set eyes were bloodshot. He looked like shit, and the stupid fucking glove he wore on his right hand didn't help him one bit. It was the kind of glove your mom used to wear to wash dishes: Bright yellow, and long enough to cover his arm up to his elbow. He always wore it— just the one— and you didn't know why. At first you'd thought he was trying to cover up the marks from the needles he used to inject the heroin you were always selling (or lending) him, but the arm he left uncovered was a fucking mess of its own, so that didn't make sense.

It also didn't matter, really; no one you sold to dressed like a human being, anyway. Mis-matched shoes, tattered rags, and nonsensical bits and pieces of donated attire were _de rigueur_ around here— Anakin's weird rubber glove hardly stood out in comparison to what everyone else in these parts tended to wear. You might have thought it strange, but you also knew his 'neighbours' didn't give a shit about it any more than they gave a shit about the hole he'd dug himself into by shooting up so goddamn much in the first place.

"Well," you said to him, "what the hell am I supposed to say when I get back to the house if you don't have anything to give me? I can't show up empty-handed. If I do—"

"Fuck!" he exclaimed again, cutting you off. "I can't give you what I don't fucking have! Can't you just tell your dickhead boss you couldn't fucking find me? Buy me a few more days? I get a cheque next week; I'll hand the whole thing over if you can just wait a little longer."

"It's not up to me," you reminded him, deciding to light up a cigarette of your own. "You told me weeks ago that if I helped you out, I wouldn't regret it. Well, I'm going to start regretting it pretty goddamn fast if you don't give me something _today."_

He sighed, shifted uncomfortably, and looked down at the ground. You were reminded of why you'd been kind enough to spot him those drugs he liked so much— he was easy to feel sorry for; too easy, in fact. "This kind of crap never used to happen to me," he said. "Did you know that before I got stuck here, I was—"

"Yeah, yeah," you interrupted. "You were important; a real tough guy. You've told me all that before, but even if I thought it was true, it wouldn't—"

"It is true!" he shouted, and you wished he hadn't started with his bullshit. He was always telling you all about the person he thought he used to be; about his friends, and even his 'wife', although he apparently liked to pretend that she (if she even existed) had once been a queen, of all things.

According to Anakin, he used to be pretty damn special— everything from a general commanding an army, to a 'guardian of peace and justice', whatever the fuck that was supposed to be. He'd blathered to you about deserts and caves and gleaming cities, usually under the influence of either liquor or his drug of choice. That was another reason you'd made the mistake of pitying him: The guy was delusional; crazy. He'd even gone so far as to say he'd cut apart monsters with a sword, although you figured all that really told you was the genre of media he used to enjoy, back when he'd had the means to watch movies and read books. 

"You're fucking nuts, Anakin, but I'm not going to let you throw me off with your weird stories today. I'm here because I need the money you owe me; if you don't have it, I'll have to take something else." You glanced over at the tent he slept in at night and suggested, "You got anything nice in there? A fancy phone; some jewellery? A watch, maybe? I want to help you out here, but I can't help you if you don't help me. Even a hundred bucks would—"

"A hundred bucks! Fuck off! If I had a hundred bucks, I'd be nodding off in my damn tent right now instead of talking to you." He'd started to pace back and forth by then, still sucking desperately on that cigarette you'd given him. You knew he was telling the truth about that at least, which was why you'd come so early in the morning. If Anakin had money, he invariably spent it on junk; junk, he said, helped him calm his nerves and forget about all he'd supposedly lost. You'd been selling him the drug for the better part of a year, and in that time, you'd learned that obtaining more of it was consistently amongst his highest priorities: If he didn't have it, it never took him long to start feeling sick. Predictably he added next, "I don't even know what I'm going to do about today— fuck, if you hadn't come here to collect from me, I'd be asking you for—"

"Another spot," you finished for him. "I know. But I can't give you anything else, and I can't get off your ass until—"

 _"God fucking damnit!"_ he shouted, and your hand went straight to the bag you kept slung over your shoulder. Aside from product to sell, you kept a handgun in there, and you weren't afraid to use it on crazy motherfuckers (even the sad, pitiful ones) who couldn't take 'no' for an answer. Being a woman in the drug business was dangerous all by itself, and you weren't one for taking chances. 

"I'm just going to go ahead take a peek inside your tent, alright?" you said. "Maybe I'll find something in there that can help you out."

"No!" he protested, tossing his cigarette to the ground in favour of moving to come between you and his tiny shelter. "No, you can't—"

That was when you got rid of your own smoke, and went ahead with taking out the gun. "Yes I can," you told him, pointing the barrel at his chest. "I don't think you understand how serious the boss is about people who rack up debts. It's not just you who's in trouble here; I am, too. You think I want to be passed around like a fucking joint at the next one of his little get-togethers? Fuck that— I'm looking in your tent, and if you try to stop me, I'm going to put a fucking hole right through you."

"Please," he begged, although he'd stopped moving at the sight of your pistol. "What they do to you there is bullshit, but I can't let you—"

"Shut the fuck up, Anakin," you said, and you backed up to the flap on the front of his shelter, lowered yourself to the ground, and gave him a hard stare before crawling into it to see just what the fuck he was trying to hide. He had to have something valuable in there, you thought; if he didn't, then your poking around shouldn't have been such a big deal to him. You hoped you'd find something nice to sell; then you could get off his back, and get your boss off of yours... for a little while, anyway.

It was predictably disgusting inside; it smelled like sweat and burnt junk, and you had to be careful not to poke yourself with any of the needles he'd left laying about the floor. God only knew what kinds of diseases the guy had; you weren't about to make them your diseases, too. There were bent and broken spoons he'd used to heat up his drugs, and lots of spent lighters, empty bottles, and cigarette butts. Dirty socks and ripped-up clothes littered the floor alongside his drug paraphernalia, and you were beginning to think that maybe he really hadn't been lying about having nothing to sell.

That is, until you saw the edge of a backpack tucked under a blanket in the corner. 

"That looks interesting," you said to yourself, and you wedged your gun between your knees as you sat down on them to take the bag out from its hiding spot and open it. 

"Stop it! Fucking stop it! There's nothing for you in there; it's just a bunch of useless old shit!" yelled Anakin, crawling into the tent behind you.

You didn't say anything to that, because if he dared to do so much as touch you, you'd be spinning around and shooting him in the head in short time. He must have known that as well as you did, because when you glanced behind yourself, you found that he was frozen in place. He was staring helplessly at you from on his hands and knees, eyes pleading, but he wasn't moving a muscle. He might have been nuts, but he wasn't stupid.

There were clothes in the bag, albeit weird ones— they were made of brown wool, and there was a thick leather belt tucked amongst them. The belt might have been worth something depending on the designer, so you rested it across your legs; the wool, though, was likely useless, so you tossed it to the side. Apart from that, it seemed, there wasn't much else in there. You were about to close the thing up in disappointment, but just as you were about to start checking the side pockets, something at the very bottom of the main compartment caught your eye.

"What the fuck is this, now?" you asked, pulling out an odd-looking cylindrical tube. It was heavy and it was made of metal; black and silver stainless steel, if you had to guess. You didn't know what the hell it was, but it looked expensive— more so than the belt, at least.

"Put that back," said Anakin. "It's garbage— worthless."

"If it's so worthless, then why the fuck do you keep it hidden in a bag underneath a blanket?" you asked, turning it over in your hands. "Tell me what it is and how it works, and we might have ourselves a deal." You took the object in one hand and your gun in the other, and shifted around so that you were facing him. He moved as though he were going to reach out and snatch it from your grasp, but your gun seemed to make him think twice about doing that.

 _"Please,"_ he begged. "You can take whatever else you want, but you can't have that— I made it; I've had it since I was just a kid. You can't—"

"You _made_ this?" you asked. "Fuck, I thought your only talent was getting high. What's this button on the side do?" You looked at the little circular switch; it was near what you presumed to be the top of the object— easy to access, which you guessed must have been the point. 

"Don't push that! It's dangerous, and no one can know that I—"

Before he could finish what he was saying, though, you went ahead and pressed your thumb down on it firmly anyway, not expecting much of anything to happen. 

Of course, your presumption was less-than-accurate.

"What the fuck!" you shouted, as a hot, gleaming, cerulean shaft of light shot out the end of Anakin's weird home-made cylinder. You were glad you'd pointed it away from your face, because the damn thing cut right through the side of the tent, leaving a gaping hole that let in enough sunlight to highlight the grime and make the place look even filthier than it had before. 

"Push it again! Goddamnit, what did I fucking tell you?!" Aside from angry and desperate, Anakin looked downright fearful. Whatever the fuck that thing was, you understood, now, why he hadn't wanted you to play around with it. This time, you obeyed his instruction; pushed the button a second time. 

The light went away as fast as it had appeared; while you were still gaping at the part of it you were holding onto, Anakin managed to swipe it away from you with the hand he kept covered by his weird kitchen glove. He must have sensed that you were too busy being shocked to shoot at him, and he'd taken advantage of the opportunity. Now that he was holding it, you were afraid to try and use your own weapon. Could that thing cut people up, too? You didn't know, and you didn't want to find out. 

"Anakin, what the hell was—"

"Never mind! Get out of here, get the fuck out of my tent!" He backed out of the space himself, seemingly to give you room to make your own exit. 

You did (you didn't even bother with the belt you'd found), and he followed you; once you were both standing outside again, you looked at him in bewilderment. "You know," you started carefully, "if you hand that thing over to me, I think it might go a long way towards—"

 _"No,"_ he said, as vehemently as you'd ever heard him say anything. You looked at his eyes; normally they seemed glassy and lost, but right now they were hard and focused. You'd never seen him look so coherent, and it jarred you. Despite that, you put away your gun. Somehow you'd come upon the feeling that in this situation, it was more likely than not useless to you. The heat that had emanated from Anakin's strange object had not been insignificant, and the quickness with which it had burned clear through the thick canvas of his tent disturbed you. He was close enough to you right now that if he pushed that damn button, you wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. Without knowing what it was, you weren't going to dare to be stupid enough to goad him into potentially displaying its capacity for cutting things apart. 

He seemed to register your fear. As he looked between you and his hand, a tiny smirk made its way onto his face. "So... are you _sure_ you can't spot me just enough to get me through the day?"

"Anakin, I can't—"

"I wasn't lying about that cheque I'm getting next week," he said. "I'll give you everything I owe you plus a little extra, if you'll just give me a break today." He paused. "...You know if you tell anyone about what you saw here, they'll think you're as crazy as they think I am, right?"

You did know that. You weren't about to run around telling everyone about Anakin's laser sword or whatever the fuck it was, but you also couldn't afford to give him any drugs today. You'd be in enough shit just for showing up in front of your boss empty-handed; unaccounted for dope was only going to add to your problems. "I can give you that extra week you said you needed," you started slowly, "but I can't give you anything for today. I—"

"Come on," he tried. "You wouldn't want me to have to show you how this thing _really_ works, would you? Help me out, and I'll make sure my finger doesn't slip. I'm starting to get a bit shaky, you know."

You glared at him. You sure hadn't intended to give him the upper hand in this argument by going through his things, but it seemed as if you had anyway, and there wasn't much you could do about it right now. 

"I'll give you a dime," you said. "Any more and I'll be spending the night with twenty different cocks up my ass. You're fucked up, but you're a good kid; you wouldn't want to be responsible for that, would you?" 

"A dime'll get me through the morning," he said, "but what am I supposed to do about the rest of the day?"

"I don't fucking know, Anakin— go ask for change in front of the liquor store if you have to." You were starting to feel both desperate and fed-up. You were sure to be in trouble later on, no one would believe what you had to tell them even if you'd been stupid enough to want do so, and Anakin— without even having to try— was about to get exactly what he wanted out of you. 

Your day, it seemed, had officially gone to shit.

He was staring at your bag, no doubt because he knew it was full of the exact thing he needed to keep himself from getting sick for the next few hours. "...Fine," he conceded. "A dime."

You reached into the front pocket, and pulled out a tiny little baggie full of fine, dirty-looking powder. Not wanting to get any closer to him than you already were, you tossed it so that it landed right in front of his feet. Grinning, he picked it up and looked at it as though it were a prize... and you supposed that, to him, it really sort of was. 

"I'm still coming back next week," you said, "whether you have that goddamn thing or not. You know I can bring backup, don't you? You ever point it at me again, and I'll make sure someone shoots you in the back of your filthy little head."

"Sure," he told you dismissively. "Whatever— I'll have your stupid money by then anyway; you don't have to worry." He'd already started for his tent, which you figured meant he'd already begun to feel nauseous from going too long without what he needed. You still felt bad for him, because he was clearly sick— but now he also made you nervous, in a way he never had before. 

"You'd better not be lying to me, Anakin. Just remember what I said about backup— you fuck around with me any more, and your brains'll be splattered all over the inside of that nasty little hidey-hole of yours before you can even get to your... whatever the fuck that thing is."

"It's called a lightsaber," he laughed back at you as he crouched down on the ground to re-enter his tent. You thought about shooting his smarmy little ass right through the flap, but that would have been a dick move; anyway, if you killed him without getting any actual cash out of him, you'd only piss off your boss, no matter how neat his little toy happened to be.

Besides all of that, you didn't want to take the chance that you might miss, and wind up with a laser sword— a 'lightsaber', as he seemed to like to call it— through the centre of your chest. 

You walked away from him that day wondering just what the hell you'd actually seen, while at the same time wishing you hadn't fucking seen it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written specifically for someone who was awesome and prescient enough to magically read my mind with regard to characterizing a canon-universe Anakin as a modern-era heroin addict. It isn't a one-shot, and I will be continuing it. It's also, however, going to be sitting on the back-burner for a little bit until I finish something else... partly because I've already got a couple of incomplete stories sitting around right now, and also partly because I can't be sure if this is even what the magical mind-reader wanted until they tell me whether I've gotten it right or wrong. 
> 
> (I'm also kind of killing two birds with one stone, because I've wanted to make Anakin a homeless dude for a while, and this is the perfect opportunity to go ahead and run with that concept.)
> 
> Thank you for checking it out; this iteration of Anakin is already quite dear to my heart. If you're into it, you can look forward to updates sometime in the near future.


End file.
